


Soccer Mom Moment

by TheOceanIsMyInkwell



Series: A Little Unsteady [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Fluff, Humor, Parent Tony Stark, Precious Peter Parker, Tony Stark Has A Heart, and bants, enjoy the rare moment of insanity while it lasts, this is just pure gratuitous fluff, wow dudes there is literally no angst in this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-11
Updated: 2018-06-11
Packaged: 2019-05-20 19:32:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14900636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheOceanIsMyInkwell/pseuds/TheOceanIsMyInkwell
Summary: “I’m going to tell Aunt May.”Tony briefly halts his ministrations to pull Peter back a bit by the shoulders. “Okay, kid, first off, that’s my line. Secondly, do you really think that the woman who showed off your baby pictures to me will give a crap about me tickling your head?”Peter deflates. “So maybe I didn’t think that ultimatum through.”“No kidding, buddy. Now you’ve just given me source material for, oh, I don’t know, a potential bargaining opportunity. How ’bout this. I promise not to tell Aunt May about your ticklish problem”--even Tony interrupts himself with a snicker, earning a truly angsty teenage groan from Peter--“and you promise to let me take pictures of you in the Spider-Man bowtie.”“You call this bargaining?”“Actually, no, it’s blackmail. Always knew you were a smart kid.”---Or, the one where May is bedridden with a cold, she and Tony are probably conniving to embarrass Peter further than his sixteen-year-old heart can take it, and all the kid wants is a haircut before his very important bioengineering conference across the country.





	Soccer Mom Moment

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dont-tell-them-i-write-phan (QueenBoudicatheGreat)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenBoudicatheGreat/gifts).



> Honestly? This all just sort of happened because I was bedridden with a fever, my angst brain was suddenly not working, and I needed an excuse to fulfill my craving for Tony cutting Peter's hair. There is literally no other justification. So please ignore the flimsy premise of this entire mess and maybe (hopefully) (kinda) enjoy my rare, once-in-a-lifetime dabble in nonstop bants before the next three installments in this series become, oh, I don't know, seriously heart-breaking.

“May, are you _sure_ you’re gonna be okay?”

“ _Yes_ , Peter, I’ll be fine. How many times do I have to say it before you believe it?”

Peter groans into the palm of his left hand. “I knew I should have cancelled on Mr. Stark on Monday.”

“Honey, I wasn’t even that sick four days ago. You wouldn’t have known.”

“Which is exactly why this trip is such a terrible idea.”

“Fine. If it will really make you feel better, I’ll call a friend over to check up on me tonight.”

Peter squints into thin air, his teeth frozen around the hangnail on his thumb. He starts to mumble against his hand before he remembers that May can’t see him over the phone, much less hear him like this. “A friend,” he repeats.

May’s laugh somehow still manages to tinkle over the line, despite her raspy breathing. “Yes, Peter. I do have friends, you know.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I do. From the pediatrics unit. Her name is Ruth.”

“Sounds like all your friends are named Ruth.”

“That’s because she’s my only friend, Peter.”

“I thought you said ‘friends’.” Though he does feel sorry for his aunt being bedridden and probably struggling to breathe through her congested chest right now, Peter can’t tamp down the slightly evil snicker. “Sick burn, Aunt May.”

“Young man, tacking on ‘aunt’ will not earn you brownie points for sassing me with memes.”

“That wasn’t even a meme! That was a pun!”

Every quality of May’s gasp of faux offense resonates over the phone line, making Peter laugh even harder. “Peter Benjamin Parker, who do you think you are, answering back to a poor, sick woman?”

“Yeah, Peter. Have you no compassion for the bedridden?”

Peter whirls at the sudden intrusion of the snidely theatrical voice into the bedroom. He’d like to pretend that he didn’t sense Tony strolling up behind him because his spidey senses were dulled from focusing all his energy on worrying over May and keeping her laughing, but in reality, Peter has just grown too accustomed to the man’s presence to be alarmed by it anymore.

Just like how May was able to sneak up on him changing out of the Spider-Man suit because he’d always let his guard down at home.

A million thoughts race each other in his mind in this split second, but the first and foremost that stumbles to the front of his brain is: _I feel safe here. Somehow. Always_.

Tony’s leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, though with no tension. There are nuances between his different versions of arm-crossing--firm, with his hands flat against his arms when pulling on the mask of suave businessman in front of stubborn investors; tight and anxious, with his fingers tucked under his armpits, when a loved one like Pepper or Rhodey confronts him on an uncomfortable topic; and this one, loose and careless, with his head tilted in a way Peter is sure he is unaware of, when he stares a little too long at the side of Peter’s face or watches the kid’s hands work on a cluttered table in the silent buzz of night.

When Peter still hasn’t said anything for too many half-seconds, Tony points at the phone in his hand. “Speakerphone? Really, Parker? What era are we in, the early 2000s?”

“It’s easier to pack this way,” Peter splutters.

“Just a tip, your voice goes up about an octave when you’re defensive.”

“Mr. Stark says hi,” Peter says loudly into the receiver, still maintaining what he hopes is intimidating eye contact with the man across the room.

Tony peels himself from the lintel to grab the phone from Peter’s hand, ignoring the kid’s protest. “Hi, Aunt May. Now, don’t you worry about a thing over there. Just get your rest and let me handle your very talkative, very annoying, and, uh”--he catches sight of Peter attempting to harden his glare, much like an irritated Pomeranian--“ _very charming and handsome_ nephew while you get some peace and quiet for once in your life. It’ll be great. A day traveling back and forth to the conference, two days at the actual presentations. Imagine. Three days with no teenage ramblings about this thing called ‘Star Wars canons.’ It’ll be heaven.”

Peter snatches the phone back from him. “They’re called _head_ canons. And Aunt May loves the sound of my voice.”

“Uh-huh.” Tony clucks his tongue, then leans over the receiver again. “I’ll be taking lots of pictures, Aunt May. Do you want him in the Iron Man necktie or the Spider-Man bowtie?”

“I will be wearing neither of those god-awful things,” Peter squeaks. “I love you, May! Don’t forget to stay hydrated! Set the timer to wake you up for regular mealtimes! I left a lot of chicken soup in the fridge so please have Ruth heat it up for you. Okay, I’ll call you when we get to the hotel, Iloveyousomuchbye.”

“I did pack both the necktie and the bowtie, in case you change your mind,” Tony deadpans.

“I promise you, Mr. Stark, I will not.”

“It’s a conference, bud, full of important people. Dress to impress.”

“It’s not gonna be _that_ formal,” Peter huffs as he zips up the rest of his miscellaneous belongings into the suitcase and shoves on a worn yellow baseball cap with--yes, Tony guessed it--a science pun. _A-mean-oh acid_. Ouch. Not even a cool one.

“Why the hell are you wearing that thing?”

“What thing?” Peter asks a little too innocently, just as he tugs the visor down more over his forehead.

Tony rolls his eyes. “It’s not even a funny pun.”

“It’ll cover both my eyebags and my overgrown bangs,” says Peter with a shrug. “And heyy, Mr. Stark, you just implicitly admitted you find some of my puns funny.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Tony steps forward. Peter stumbles back, scowling again, at which Tony feigns picking up the suitcase from the bed. As soon as Peter rushes over again with an apologetic stutter on his lips, insisting that he carry it himself, Tony snatches the cap off the kid’s head.

“Mr. Stark.”

“Nuh-uh. You’re not wearing that thing. Not on _my_ watch. Kid, just look at me. Would _I_ ever wear a baseball cap like that to a conference?”

Peter purses his lips, considering the comebacks at his disposal. He could bring up that time Tony wore a cap to come pick him up from school after that humiliating showdown with Flash, but then again, it was probably a designer cap. Worth two school years of textbooks and then some.

“I thought you said not to do anything you would do.”

“Oh my fu-- _God_ , kid, you’re killing me. At least let me die in my suit saving the world or something, not arguing with a tween over his fashion choices.”

Peter finally holds his hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay, okay, okay. I’ll just gel it. Maybe manage to pull off a James Bond look.”

This is probably number seven hundred thirty-nine in the series of _Long-Suffering Sighs Dedicated to Peter Pubescent Parker_ , Tony thinks. “Kid. Just get a haircut. We still have two hours to kill before Happy comes and picks us up.”

“But Mr. Stark--”

Tony holds up a finger. “I know what you’re going to say. It’s on me.”

“No, but--”

“No buts. Seriously, kid, why didn’t you get a haircut beforehand? Actually, no, don’t answer that. I’m sure Spider-Manning has been snagging all your attention. Understandable.”

“Mr. Stark!” Peter grabs at his hair and smooths it back, somehow managing only to agitate it further. Tony suppresses the absolutely terrifying notion that he finds the kid’s hair standing on end to actually be cute. “Mr. Stark, it’s all right, really. It would probably take forever to wait after walking in at this time of the day…”

“No, it won’t. I’ll take you where I usually go for mine. My personal stylist does an amazing job. Oh, and he would never prioritize anyone else over us. FYI.”

Still, the kid seems to dig his heels in even further. “Thanks, but...it’s okay.”

“I mean, sure, if you want to look like a poodle, I’m all for experimenting with your looks. But you did say it was overgrown.”

Peter decides to ignore the fact that this is definitely the fourth time in the last week alone that Tony has compared him to a puppy. “Y-yeah. Yeah, it is.”

“So why the hesitation? C’mon, kid, I’m not a mind reader.”

“It’s just, um…”

Tony arches a brow.

Peter squeaks out: “...Expensive?”

“Uh-huh. Tell me the real reason you don’t wanna go.”

“I-It’s nothing. Really. It’s--stupid.”

Tony resists the urge to indulge in an eye-roll. “Maybe. I’ll be the judge of that.”

“Um...okay, so...May is usually the one who cuts my hair. Like ever since I was little. Like all the time,” Peter chokes out in a rush.

“So why didn’t you--ah.” May is sick, and of course Peter Parker, resident teenage martyr of Queens, would never dream of bothering his coughing aunt to give him a haircut.

“Yeah.” Peter’s lips look suddenly dry. “Like I said, it’s not a big deal, I’ll find a way to manage it, and we _really_ should start getting our stuff downstairs so Happy--”

Tony cuts him off with a tone so gentle that he surprises even himself. “It’s okay, kid. You’re sensitive about who touches your head. That’s completely normal.”

“Not when you say it that way,” Peter complains through lightly colored cheeks. “I--actually--uh, we actually did that to start saving money. Which is a _great_ way to save up, by the way! Do you have any idea how much it costs around New York to get a haircut that doesn’t actually suck? Like, if you calculate how many hours someone like me or May would have to work to cover twenty-four haircuts a year, which could very easily just be done by another person--”

Tony lets him ramble on for a little longer before finally cutting in. “Hey, we still have a little less than two hours. I could just do it for you.”

Peter’s eyes go wide.

“I mean.” Tony coughs into a fist. “If you trust me near your head, of course.”

Peter has so many questions. “You have shears here in the tower? Well, I mean, what am I talking about, scissors would do. A comb, though. You have a comb? Oh wait, I’m an idiot, I have a comb. Oh. Hold up. Since when do you cut hair? Mr. Stark, did you have a moonlighting stint as a barber that the media doesn’t know about?”

“Kid, one more peep out of you and you’ll actually have me wishing you were unconscious.”

“Sorry,” Peter says, though he looks anything but. Almost two years into their dubious mentor-intern relationship, and he’s already cast away nearly all his shame in front of Tony.

Tony waves a hand dismissively. “I used to hide away in my dorm room and cut my hair myself back in college. Can’t be much harder to do it on somebody else. Now, I don’t have that cape thing that they usually use--”

“That’s okay. Got any garbage bags?”

And so Tony Stark finds himself seated on his actual bottom on the carpet of his living room, gripping two ends of a white plastic garbage bag to hold it steady while watching in a kind of morbid fascination as the kid scrambles along the floor with office scissors to slice open a straight opening across the glued end.

“That’s where my head will go through,” Peter explains.

“I could straitjacket you with this forever.”

“You love me too much,” Peter deadpans.

“Exactly.”

Fifteen minutes later, Peter is perched on the kitchen island and humming along to some Def Leppard blaring from his phone as Tony gently combs and snips at small sections of his hair at the back of his head. And yes, Peter is in denial that he has his eyes closed or is leaning back into Tony’s calloused fingers. Because he is not. Definitely not.

After another few moments of song segues and the rhythmic little _snip, snip, snip_ that feels like heaven to Peter’s spidey senses, Tony clears his throat. “So...not to accidentally stumble into a heart-to-heart talk or anything, but how come you trust me near your head when it’s only ever been your aunt who’s done this for you?”

When it takes the kid more than two seconds to respond, Tony nearly dies of heartburn. He knew he should have kept his mouth shut. But then Peter pipes up, sounding almost sheepish even with his back turned to the man: “Because anxiety.”

“Because...anxiety.”

“Yeah. May and I always have this tradition where we put on our playlist of our latest favorites and sing along at the top of our lungs. And she also kind of, I don’t know, _massages_ my head to get me feeling relaxed and then that’s where it gets downright _embarrassing_ because apparently I’m sensitive in certain spots of my head and I start saying mushy things and...a-and yeah.”

“Back up, Underoos. Mushy things? Like what?”

“Mr. Stark.”

Not bothering to hide the shit-eating grin on his face because the boy can’t turn around now anyway, Tony starts to casually run his fingers over the side of his head. He barely reigns in a cackle when the kid lets a sound of delight slip out.

“Mr. Stark, I know what you’re doing and it’s not going to-- _Tony_!” At the last second, Peter’s voice pitches up into a shriek.

Tony’s voice drips with innocence. “What? What’s wrong? A little ticklish back here?”

“Ahh, no. Totally not. It’s nothing, I was just-- _Tony, stop_.”

“Wow, and to think, all this time, all I had to do to get you to stop calling me ‘Mr. Stark’ was just poke your head in the right places.”

“I’m going to tell Aunt May.”

Tony briefly halts his ministrations to pull Peter back a bit by the shoulders. “Okay, kid, first off, that’s my line. Secondly, do you really think that the woman who showed off your baby pictures to me will give a crap about me tickling your head?”

Peter deflates. “So maybe I didn’t think that ultimatum through.”

“No kidding, buddy. Now you’ve just given me source material for, oh, I don’t know, a potential bargaining opportunity. How ’bout this. I promise not to tell Aunt May about your ticklish problem”--even Tony interrupts himself with a snicker, earning a truly angsty teenage groan from Peter--“and you promise to let me take pictures of you in the Spider-Man bowtie.”

“You call this bargaining?”

“Actually, no, it’s blackmail. Always knew you were a smart kid.”

“I’m not going to let you send May any pictures of me looking any more humiliating than I already do.”

“I could just call her now…” Tony muses.

“Oh my _God, fine_. But it will be the Iron Man tie. _Not_ the bowtie, for crying out loud.”

“I guess I could live with that.”

“And it will not be near any people at the conference. Actually, it will not be at the conference at all. We can get it over with when we get to the hotel.”

When Tony speaks again, there’s almost something like a tinge of pride coloring his voice. “I always knew those suave Stark-style negotiation skills would rub off on you someday.”

“You can stop your soccer mom moment now. I love you too, okay?”

“Geez, kid. I said I wanted to hear you say mushy things, not give me acid reflux.”

**Author's Note:**

> ...Maybe let me know in the comments if you, too, enjoyed this trash as much as I somehow enjoyed writing it?
> 
> Also, side note, I imagine this one-shot takes place much later in the timeline of this series (I did mention they would not be in chronological order), so that's why the relationship between Peter and Tony has grown away from tentative stuttering and more toward shameless bantering.
> 
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